The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (153 page)

The Toblakai straightened, his huge hands smeared with blood.

The two men slowly turned to face the ancient gate. The black hair emerging from the bundled corpse stirred, the strands gently lifting. The suspended dust had begun to swirl beyond the pillars. Sparks winked in its midst, like jewels set in an ochre cloak.

“What?” the Toblakai asked.

Leoman glanced over at the Holy Book. Its hide cover glistened as if with sweat. The warrior took a step toward the gate.

Something was emerging from the dust cloud. Two figures, side by side, their arms locked around one another, staggering, heading straight toward the pillars—and the corpse lying between the bleached gateposts.

“Blades in hand and unhanded in wisdom…”

One was an old man, the other a young woman. Heart hammering in his chest, Leoman let his gaze fix on her.
So alike. Dark threat pours from her. Pain, and from pain, rage
.

There was a thump and a grate of stones beside the warrior. He turned to see the Toblakai on his knees, head bowed before the approaching apparitions.

Raising her head, the woman found first Sha'ik's wrapped corpse, then lifted her eyes higher to fix on Leoman and the kneeling giant. She halted, almost standing over the body, her long black hair rising as if with a static charge.

Younger. Yet the fire within…it's the same. Ah, my faith…

Leoman lowered himself to one knee. “You are reborn,” he said.

The woman's low laugh was triumphant. “So I am,” she said.

She shifted her grip on the old man, whose head hung down, his clothes nothing but rags. “Help me with him,” she commanded. “But beware his hands…”

 

“The chain of dogs,” the sailor growled, his voice as dark and heavy as the air of the hold. “Now there's a curse no man would wish upon his worst enemy. What, thirty thousand starving refugees? Forty? Sweatjowled nobleborn among 'em, too, bleating this and that. Coltaine's hourglass is about run out, I'd wager.”

Kalam shrugged in the gloom, his hands still running along the damp hull.
Name a ship
Ragstopper
and worry starts before you weigh anchor
. “He's survived this long,” he muttered.

The sailor paused in his stacking of bales. “Look at this, will ya? Three-fifths' stowage gone before e'en the food and water comes 'board. Korbolo Dom's collected Reloe and his army—added up with his own and making what? Fifty thousand swords in all? Sixty? The traitor will catch hold o' that chain at Vathar. Then with the tribes massing to the south, aye, Beru fend, that Wickan mongrel's all but done for.” The man grunted as he heaved another canvas-wrapped bale. “Heavy as gold…and that ain't no empty rumor, I'd say. That blob of whale grease calling himself High Fist has his nose up in the wind—look here, his seal's on everything. The rotten worm's turning tail with his loot. Why else is the Imperial Treasurer comin 'board, hey? And twenty marines besides…”

“You may have a point,” the assassin said, distracted. He'd yet to find a dry plank.

“You the caulker's man, then, eh? Got a woman here in Aren? Bet you wish you was comin' wi'us, hey? Mind you, we'll be cramped enough what with the Treasurer and two perfumed elects.”

“Perfumed elects?”

“Aye, saw one of 'em come 'board not ten minutes ago. Smooth as rat-spit, that one, all airs and dainty but no amount of flower juice could hide the spunk, if you know what I mean.”

Kalam grinned in the darkness.
Not precisely, you old swab, but I can guess
. “What of the other one?” he asked.

“I'd hazard the same, only I ain't seen him yet. Came 'board with the captain, I heard. Seven Cities blood, if you can believe that. That was before the captain sprung us from the harbor hole—not that we deserved to be arrested in the first place—Hood's breath, when a squad of soldiers comes on ya demanding this and that, it's only natural to put a fist in their mawks, hey? We wasn't ten paces from the gangplank—so much for shore leave!”

“Your last port of call?”

“Falar. Big red-haired women all gruff and muscle just like I like 'em. Ah, that was a time!”

“Your haul?”

“Weapons, in advance of Tavore's fleet. Rode the waves like a sow, let me tell you—like we're gonna do this one, too, all the way to Unta. Bulge the belly like that and your master's got wet hands and feet, hey? Good coin, though, I wager.”

Kalam straightened. “There won't be time for a full refit,” he said.

“Never is, but Beru bless you—do what you can.”

The assassin cleared his throat. “Sorry to say, you've got me as the wrong man. I'm not one of the caulker's men.”

The sailor paused over a bale. “Hey?”

Kalam dried his hands on his cloak. “I'm the other perfumed elect.”

There was silence from the other side of the hold, then a soft muttering, followed by, “Beg your pardon, sir.”

“No need for that,” the assassin said. “What's the likelihood of finding one of the captain's guest down here pressing the planks? I'm a cautious man and, alas, my nerves haven't been eased.”

“She ships, to be true,” the sailor said, “but captain's got three dedicated hands on the pumps, workin' through every flip o' the glass, sir. And she'll ride any blow and that she has, more than once. Captain's got a lucky shirt, y'see.”

“I've seen it,” Kalam said, stepping over a row of chests each bearing the High Fist's seal. He made his way to the hatch, laid a hand on the ladder rail, then paused. “What's the rebel activity out in the Sahul?”

“Gettin' hotter, sir. Bless them Marines, 'cause we won't be outrunnin' a scow on this run.”

“No escort?”

“Pormqual's commanded Nok's fleet to hold this harbor. We'll have cover crossing Aren Bay out to the edge of Dojal Hading Sea, at least.”

Kalam grimaced at that, but said nothing. He climbed the ladder to the main deck.

Ragstopper
wallowed heavily at the Imperial berth. Stevedores and crewmen were busy with their tasks, making it difficult for the assassin to find a place out of anyone's path. He finally found a spot on the sterncastle near the wheel, from which he could observe. A huge Malazan transport, high in the water, sat on the opposite side of the broad stone dock. The horses it had brought from Quon had been unloaded an hour earlier, with only a dozen dockhands left behind with the task of removing the butchered remains of the animals that had not survived the lengthy journey. It was common practice to salt the meat from such losses, provided the ship's cutter pronounced it edible. The hides found innumerable uses on board. The dockhands were left with heads and bones and no shortage of eager buyers crowding the harbor front on the other side of the Imperial barrier.

Kalam had not seen the captain since the morning they had boarded, two days past. The assassin had been shown to the small stateroom Salk Elan had purchased for Kalam's passage, then promptly left to his own devices while the captain went off to manage the release of his jailed crew.

Salk Elan…I weary of waiting to make your acquaintance…

Voices barked from the gangplank and Kalam glanced over to see the captain arrive on deck. Accompanying him was a tall, stooped man of middle years, his hatchet face painfully thin, his gaunt cheeks powdered light blue in some recent court fashion, and wearing oversized Napan sea gear. This man was flanked by a pair of bodyguards, both huge, their red faces buried in black, snarled beards and rudely plaited mustaches. They wore pot helms with bridge-guards, full shirts of mail, and broad-bladed tulwars at their hips. Kalam was unable to guess at their cultural origins. Neither the bodyguards nor their master stood comfortably on the mildly rocking deck.

“Ah,” said a soft voice behind the assassin, “that would be Pormqual's treasurer.”

Startled, Kalam turned to find the speaker leaning against the stern rail.
A knife's thrust away
.

The man smiled. “You were well described indeed.”

The assassin studied the stranger. He was lean, young, dressed in a loose, sickly green silk shirt. His face was handsome enough, though a touch too sharp-featured to be called friendly. Rings glittered on his long fingers. “By whom?” Kalam snapped, disconcerted by the man's sudden appearance.

“Our mutual friend in Ehrlitan. I am Salk Elan.”

“I have no friends in Ehrlitan.”

“Poor choice of word, then. One who was indebted to you, and to whom I was in turn indebted, with the result that I was tasked with arranging your departure from Aren, which I have now done, thus freeing me of further obligations—which has proved timely, I might add.”

Kalam could see no obvious weapons on the man, which told him plenty. He sneered. “Games.”

Salk Elan sighed. “Mebra, who entrusted you with the Book, which was duly delivered to Sha'ik. You were bound for Aren, or so Mebra concluded. He further suspected that, with your, uh, talents, you were determined to take the Holy Cause into the heart of the Empire. Or rather,
through
one heart in particular. Among other preparations, I arranged for a tripwire of sorts to be set at the Imperial Warren's gate, which when activated would immediately trigger various prearranged events.” The man swung his head, scanning the sprawling rooftops of the city. His smile broadened. “Now, as it turned out, my activities in Aren have been curtailed somewhat of late, making such arrangements difficult to maintain. Even more disconcerting, a bounty has been placed on my head—all a dreadful misunderstanding, I assure you, yet I've little faith in Imperial justice, especially when the High Fist's own Guard are involved. Hence, I booked not one berth but two—the cabin opposite yours, in fact.”

“The captain does not strike me as a man with cheap loyalties,” Kalam said, struggling to conceal his alarm
—If Mebra worked out I was planning to kill the Empress, who else might have? And this Salk Elan, whoever he is, clearly doesn't know when to shut up…unless, of course, he's fishing for a reaction. Besides, there's a classic tactic that might be at work here. No time to test veracity when you're reeling…

The treasurer's high-pitched voice wheeled up from the main deck behind him, in varied complaints flung at the captain—who if he made reply did so under his breath.

“No, not cheap,” Salk Elan agreed. “Nonexistent would be more accurate.”

Kalam grunted, both disappointed at the failed feint and pleased that he'd heard confirmation of his assessment of the captain's character.
Hood's breath, Imperial charters aren't worth the oilskin they're written on these days…

“Yet another source of consternation,” Elan continued, “the man's far above average in wits, and seems to find his only intellectual stimulus in gestures of subterfuge and obfuscation. No doubt he went overboard—as it were—in his mysterious meeting with you at the inn.”

Kalam grinned in spite of himself. “No wonder I took an instant liking to him.”

Elan's laugh was soft, yet appreciative. “And it should be no surprise that I so look forward to our meals at his table each night of this pending voyage.”

Kalam held his smile as he said, “I'll not make the mistake of leaving my back open to you again, Salk Elan.”

“You were distracted, of course,” the man said, unperturbed. “I do not expect such a potential opportunity to recur.”

“I'm glad we're understood, because your explanation thus far has more leaks than this ship.”

“Glad? Such understatement, Kalam Mekhar! I am
delighted
we're so clearly understood!”

Kalam stepped to one side and glanced back down at the main deck. The treasurer was continuing his tirade against the captain. The crew was motionless, all eyes on the scene.

Salk Elan tsked. “An appalling breach of etiquette, wouldn't you say?”

“Ship's command is the captain's,” the assassin said. “If he'd the mind to, he'd have put a halt to things by now. Looks to me like the captain's letting this squall run out.”

“Nonetheless, I suggest you and I join the proceedings.”

Kalam shook his head. “Not our business and there's no value in making it so. Mind you, don't let my opinion stop you.”

“Ah, but it is our business, Kalam. Would you have
all
the passengers tarred by the crew? Unless you enjoy the cook's spit in your gruel, that is.”

The bastard has a point
.

He watched Salk Elan step casually down to the main deck, and, after a moment, followed suit.

“Noble sir!” Elan called out.

The treasurer and his two bodyguards all turned.

“I trust you are fully appreciative of the captain's patience,” Elan continued, still approaching. “On most ships you and your effete servants would be over the side by now, and at least two of you would have sunk like ballast stones—a most pleasing image.”

One of the bodyguards growled and edged forward, a large, hairy hand closing on the grip of his tulwar.

The treasurer was strangely pale beneath the sealskin hood, his face showing not a drop of sweat despite the heat and the heavy swaths of the Napan raincloak covering his thin frame. “You insolent excuse for a crab's anus!” he squealed. “Roll back into your hole, blood-smeared turd, before I call on the harbor magistrate to throw you in chains!” The man raised one pallid, long-fingered hand. “Megara, beat this man senseless!”

The bodyguard with his hand on his weapon stepped forward.

“Belay that!” the captain bellowed. Half a dozen sailors closed in, moving between the mustached bodyguard and Salk Elan. Pins and knives waved about menacingly. The bodyguard hesitated, then backed away.

The captain smiled, anchoring his hands on his hips. “Now,” he said in a quiet, reasonable tone, “me and the coin-stacker will resume our discussion in my cabin. In the meantime, my crew will help these two servants out of their Hood-damned chain and stow it somewhere safe. Said servants will then bathe and ship's cutter will examine them for vermin—which I don't tolerate 'board
Ragstopper—
and when the delousing's done they can help load the last of their master's provisions, minus the leadwood bench which we'll donate to the customs officer to ease our departure. Finally, any further cursing on this ship—no matter how inventive—comes from me and no one else. That, gentlemen, will be all.”

If the treasurer intended a challenge, it was pre-empted by his sudden collapse onto the deck. The two bodyguards spun about at the loud thump, then stood stock still, staring down at their unconscious master.

After a moment, the captain said, “Well, not all, it seems. Get the coin-stacker below and get him out of those sealskins. Ship's cutter has more work to do, and we ain't even cast off yet.” He swung to Salk Elan and Kalam. “Now, you two gentlemen can join me in my cabin.”

 

The room was not much larger than the assassin's own, and almost empty of possessions. It was a few minutes before the captain managed to find three tankards into which he poured local sour ale from a clay jug. Without offering a toast, the man drained half his tankard's contents, then wiped his mouth with the back of one hand. His eyes roved restlessly, not once settling on the two men before him. “The rules,” he said, grimacing. “Simple. Stay out of the treasurer's way. The situation is…confused. With the Admiral under arrest—”